Pretty Words
by writerofberk
Summary: "You know, you really should just tell them. The lucky troll. Come on, Branch, we both know you didn't make up those pretty words on the spot." One-shot. Missing moment. Fluff, swearing, mutual pining, unresolved sexual tension, almost-kiss.


_It's official,_ Branch decides as he stares unseeingly through the curtain of vibrant rainbow monstrosity Poppy calls Bridget's "Lady Glittersparkles" hair, and he tries to pretend he can't feel everyone's eyes on him or his heart crashing around inside him or his cheeks burning furiously in that stupid obvious purple blush spreading vividly all the way to the tips of his twitching ears. _Feeling things_ _is bullshit._

There is _one_ thing, though. Poppy and her friends—at least they're not over there out-and-out staring at him. They're actually making some kind of an effort here, and yeah, the glances they sneak at him every few seconds from the corners of their wandering eyes aren't even in the same stratosphere as subtle, but they're—come on, they're _trying,_ and it's _decent_ of them. Even if they're not very good at it. Even if their eyes have begun to burn holes in him, everywhere their gazes fall, little black voids, cracks and fissures opening in his skin and he wishes he could barricade himself behind his own hair or curl into a ball or even just cross his arms a little tighter, anything to stop feeling so naked, like he just cut his own head open and let them have a look inside which—oh, yeah— _he kind of fucking did_.

He can still taste the words inside his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, clinging to the corner of his lip. If there was a way to—to spit them out, like spoiled food—spit them out into his hands or into the trash or— _well,_ he thinks, as the Bergen King helps Bridget into her roller skates and she giggles and the sight makes something twinge painfully in Branch's chest and he tells himself it doesn't, _at least that stupid poem did someone some good. And—_ the Bergen King goes to his knees before Bridget, and slowly, lovingly, laces up her skates, and Bridget looks like someone has given her a handful of sunshine and it's not a twinge anymore, it's a twist, a tight coil Branch can't breathe around— _and even if she is a Bergen, Bridget deserves some good in her life._

The Bergen King and Bridget link hands, and Branch has to close his eyes, and he tells himself he's only tired.

"Sooo—"

Poppy's voice at his ear and Poppy's breath on his cheek and Branch snaps his eyes open and she's standing at his elbow with her hands clasped behind her back and bouncing on her toes and she's got a huge, obnoxious— _adorable_ —grin on her face and she bumps his shoulder lightly with her own and he wonders if she's actually _trying_ to kill him—

"— _you've_ been holdin' out on us, buddy."

"I—" And maybe Branch's mind is just moving really, really slowly because of Poppy's proximity, but for the life of him, he can't figure out what she means. "What?"

She giggles, and he can't tell if the sound fills up every empty place he's got, or drags his insides out through the gash he made in his own head.

"Those were some real pretty words you were flingin', my man." She raises her eyebrows. "Who knew you were such a romantic?"

"I—I don't—" Okay, if a black hole could just open up right this fucking minute and suck him down inside, that would be great. Please and thank you. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, and he knows his voice isn't half as rough or mean as it needs to be. _Romantic._ Poppy called him a _romantic_. Death would be kinder.

" _Your eyes are like two pools so deep_? Come on, no need to play dumb with me, pal."

Branch can't decide if he wants to shut her up with his hand over her mouth, or his _mouth_ over her mouth.

"I just," his tongue feels too heavy, "I just—made that up. O-on the spot. I didn't _mean_ it."

Poppy's rosy cheeks lift a little higher as her smile widens, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "Mm-hm. Sure. Okay." She nods so hard, her frizzy pink hair quivers where it fades smoothly into green-yellow and blends seamlessly with everyone else's. Branch wonders what it would feel to twine his hair with hers. He wonders if her hair is as soft as it looks and if she'd let him touch it if he asked and if it still smells like strawberries since it's touched the other trolls' so much.

And he wonders why he's wondering things that are never going to happen anyway.

He looks away—back to Bridget and the Bergen King, and he sees the soft-spoken scullery maid is still nervously clutching the dirty railing around the rink, to hold herself up even though the Bergen King is promising he won't let go of her hand, promising he won't let her fall. Branch wonders what it would feel like to hold Poppy's hand, and not let go.

"You know," Poppy whispers, "I think you really helped Bridget. Like, a lot." Her eyes are soft, and sparkling like diamonds with a million different colors under the flashing rainbow lights of the rink, and there's no goddamn way Branch is ever coming up for air. "I mean, just look at her! She's really gotten the hang of it now, hasn't she?"

"Sh-she's stuttering up a storm, Poppy." _And apparently, she's not the only one._ "A-and," Branch continues, quickly, before Poppy can comment on that for herself, "I'm pretty sure she'd have gotten the hang of it without me. She's not stupid. And she had you."

 _Fuck._

It's way too late to save _anything_ but Branch snaps his mouth shut anyway and isn't that just the fucking name of the day right now—saying everything he means and everything he _doesn't want_ to mean and everything he'd never thought he would—it's like the truth about his grandma had lodged itself in the back of his throat, too big and sharp to swallow down, too horrible, too _shameful,_ to spit out—and now it's gone and there's nothing left—he's got nothing left—no barriers, no roadblocks, nothing to stop the words coming out of him—and God, he has so many, _so fucking many_ —he's kept them inside him so long and now they won't stop coming, _they just won't stop coming_ and Poppy looks at him and she's never looked more like herself than she does in this moment, with her eyes shining and her mouth slowly curling up into another smile—

"That," she says, and there's the barest touch of a laugh to her voice, "just might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Can I hug you?"

" _No."_ He tells himself his heart isn't picking up speed at the thought of hugging her, at the thought of her body pressing against his, and _fucking God, Branch, get a hold of yourself_. "And you'd better not get _used_ to it." _Because if we don't all die a miserable death at the hands of a horrible, bloodthirsty Bergen, I'm going to barricade myself in my bunker until you completely forget my existence because if I have to go the rest of my life with you thinking of that stupid poem every time you look at me, I might as well pitch myself off the side of Bridget's head and shatter my skull on the skating rink right now._

"Come on! You don't want to hug your bestest friend in the entire world?"

"I swear to God, Poppy, if you take one step closer to me, I'm handing you to the Bergen King myself."

"Wow, _rude_ ," Poppy huffs, but she retreats a little, and her arms fall back to her sides. "Catch you at Hug-Time, then."

"Don't count on it."

"Aww, come on, where's your way with words gone?" The corners of her mouth start to creep upward again. "Don't tell me that was a one-time thing!"

Branch is pretty sure his face is going to catch fire sometime in the next ten seconds unless Poppy decides to learn the wonderful art of shutting the fuck up. "I don't—I told you—I just—on the spot—didn't _mean_ —"

"Branch," Poppy says, quietly now, and there's something softer about the edges of her smile, when she looks at him. She takes a step closer, and her fingers close around his wrist. His breath hitches and he prays she doesn't hear. "You know, you really should just tell them."

"T-tell—?" _Fuck fuck fuck she knows okay can I die now please—_

"The lucky troll, of course." She tilts her head a little, to hold his gaze. "We both know you didn't make that up on the spot. And I think if you just—if you just gave—whoever it is—a _chance_ —" She's so close so close so close and he can count every single sparkling freckle on her round pink cheeks and God, what he wouldn't give to kiss each one. "—a chance to _know_ you—to see what I've seen in you—" Her hand slips down his wrist until she's holding his hand holding holding holding his _hand_ and she can feel his fingers shaking and his palms sweating and he knows she can and he should pull away he should really just pull away but he's never wanted to do anything less in the entire world. "—well—" the word's barely a breath in the space between them, "—I think they'd like what they see."

 _Kiss her kiss her kiss her kiss her_ and the words echo over and over in his mind in time with the frantic pounding of his traitorous and hopeful heart and everyone's watching them and he shouldn'the shouldn't he shouldn't—he swore he'd never—but he _is_ —he's leaning down and leaning in and here's the crazy part—she's leaning in _too_ —

Bridget falls. Spectacularly.

An earsplitting, headache-inducing screech of her skates against the slick tiles of the rink is their only warning, and then the world is a blur of bright lights and Bridget stammering out apologies and the Bergen King kneeling in front of her, asking her if she's okay, and the unmistakable throb of bruises forming all over Branch's body as Bridget strikes the ground, colors popping in front of his eyes and he's only marginally cushioned by the thick cloud of rainbow hair and there's a strange kind of weight on his chest—

Instinct acts for him, tearing his eyes open and ripping his head back up off the ground—and though the others haven't moved, sprawled where they fell atop Bridget's head, they're not hurt, and he lets out a breath— _everyone's all right_ —no—no, _wait,_ everyone's _not_ all right—where— _Poppy_ — _where's Poppy_ —?

The weight on his chest shifts.

Branch snaps his eyes shut. _Why didn't the fall just kill me?_

"—I-I'm so sorry, I just—I didn't mean—I'm such a clumsy _idiot_ —" Bridget's trembling voice breaks through his momentary pity party. God, the poor girl sounds like she's about to burst into tears any second. The "Lady Glittersparkles" façade has cracked clean in two—Branch tugs his eyes back open, and makes himself meet Poppy's gaze—tries to tell her, without words, to help Bridget—

"No, no, no, that's okay! It's okay!" The Bergen King smiles down at her. "We all lose control of our skates once in a while, darling!"

Poppy absolutely beams. "Ha! Listen to him! Can't take his eyes off her, can he?"

"I—" Branch tries not to notice the warmth of her breath on his neck. _He's not the only one_. "Great," he says, a little breathlessly, and it's supposed to be sarcastic but that gets a little lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth and yes, her hair does still smell like strawberries, and she's smiling at him and a second too late he realizes the lift, the ache, in the side of his face means he must be smiling back—

"Hey, Branch?"

His name falls softly as snow from her lips. He tells himself he doesn't care if she ever says it again.

"W-what?"

His own voice is ugly in comparison, all shaky and stuttery and clumsy, like a child still learning how to speak.

"I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too."

Branch's heart stops. Either it's finally hammered its way out of him, and flung itself as far away as possible in a desperate bid for freedom from all the shit Poppy's put it through in the last three minutes alone, or it's just given up, and died in his chest and either way, he really can't blame it. _I think you kinda do have a nice smile, too,_ and his skin is tingling where it's pressed against hers and he needs to say something—something _horrible_ —something that'll make her hate him—

Bridget shifts, and reaches for the Bergen King's outstretched hand—and she starts to stand, and the world is a blur all over again and Branch doesn't know who moves first but the world is a blur of he and Poppy ripping away from each other, ripping back, scrambling away like they can't ever put enough space between them—like repelled magnets, like the touch of one burned the other—and his body aches with the absence of hers and he tells himself it doesn't and now that he can't smell the strawberries in her hair or feel the tingle of her skin on his, it's so much easier to remember why he can't kiss her, why he can't love her, why he can't hold her hand in his or twine his hair around hers or go around telling her she has a nice smile or go around believing it when she tells him _he_ has a nice smile—

"Well," she says, softly, and there's something strangely flat in her voice, in her face, "I guess that's my cue." She slides down Bridget's head, to settle right above the enormous ear, and she doesn't look back.

 _Yeah. It's official. Feeling things is fucking bullshit._

* * *

 **A/N: this was not supposed to happen. i don't know why i wrote this. mutual pining is The Good Shit though.**


End file.
